Posted by: iansales | February 14, 2010


He cannot feel this world
though he stands upon its surface;
he cannot smell the earth
though he knows it reeks of gunpowder;
he cannot hear the wind
for there is no air.

He carries the weight of his own small world on his back.

The breeze across his face:
the fans of his PLSS.
The hiss in his ears:
a radio carrier-wave.
The coolness against his skin:
the LGC water-pipes.

He has known loneliness,
he has known it in the sky,
he has known it among amiable strangers –
insulated by a layer of his own making.

Here he stands, bent forward by wonder,
insulated by thirteen layers,
his view filtered through gold.

And he feels closer to his fellows,
to the distant human race,
than he has ever done.


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